Crimson
by Evablue
Summary: Crimson and porcelain, they look so beautiful together. But his eyes hold more beauty and they sustain me...


Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi, or anyone else for that matter.

First person POV. Can you guess who? Anyway, wrote this at around 1:00 AM one night... Eh, it is okay.

I am yours. Each flutter of my eye lashes. Every little thump of my heart. All my kisses. My touches. I look into you, and through you, and I feel my soul latch onto yours. I feel my every breath align itself with your own. The rightness of my hand within yours.

I lock myself in the way you hold me together, keep me standing up. The way you save me from myself and from my endless, tireless journey of incompletion. Non-satisfaction. Always with myself. You keep me sated. Redeemed. You keep me pulled together and woven tight.

You keep each part of me that is horrible and damaged locked from sight. You hold my smile in your words. My happiness in your palm.

You've led me from despair. I wandered, lost and you found me. You saved me.

I am yours, every piece of me belongs to you. To who you are. To what you are. You fill the holes I never spoke of, the inner scars that aren't as obvious as the razor blade marks on my arm.

You give me a reason not to when I stare into the mirror at night and remember the color of crimson on the white porcelain sink. I see yours eyes and how my own belong to the blue. How that blue holds me together, is more powerful than that crimson. More powerful than that streak of red against my own pale skin.

Crimson and porcelain, they look so beautiful together. But your eyes hold more beauty and they sustain me.

You make my beauty, making me more than I am. More than I could be with skin and bones. With too long of a face and too small of a smile. More than I could hope to be with sullen eyes and a worn disposition. I'm washed out, like a pair of five year old jeans that have been thrown into bleach too many times. Trying, always, to get out the stains. Stains that won't come out... Just get whited out. Covered over. But, you make me feel beautiful when I hold your hand. When you kiss my lips.

I am yours. What I possess belongs to you. My beauty. My happiness. My heart and all the things I am, have been, and will be. You hold me all and I am a part of you. I am woven into you. You own everything that is what I am.

I do not own your eyes, though. They do not follow me. They follow blond and bronzed. They follow perfection and self-confidence. What I am not, have never been, and can never be. Your eyes belong to that which shuns you and disowns you. That which brushes you off and forgets about you as though you are nothing.

And yet, your eyes belong to them.

Your hand, in my own, belongs to her. It belongs to first dates and long walks home from school. To endless moments stretched over a period of time, a span of memories, I cannot compete with.

My entire body is yours to meld and bend and twist into whatever pleases you. Yet, I do not even get that small surface of skin over knuckle and bones. She gets it.

Your heart, buried and hidden...Locked somewhere out of reach. It does not laugh with me or kiss with me. You own the darkest recesses of my soul, all the parts I don't show anyone else. All the pieces I won't acknowledge. You get it all, and yet you withhold your heart. I belong to you and your heart is elsewhere.

It wanders to broken promises you wish had stayed kept, to lies you wish you had never told. It pulls back over and over to yesterday and last year and every time that isn't mine.

She gets it.

Your time does not belong to me. It is always pulling you away and towards her. Each day your ability to pretend, your ability to blotch her out with me wanes and I see through it more. I see those threads that pull you, that tug you backwards to her arms. I see that as soon as time handed you to me, handed myself into your keeping, you began to drift. That precious time never fully becoming mine, always hers. Everything is hers.

She gets it all.

I belong to you. All of me. Every single nook and cranny. All the knitty-gritty details that make me up. Each fiber that is my own is held together by you, who truly owns my sphere of conscious. You, who own my sanity and my stability.

I belong to you and you are without a price. You are not on the shelf or close within my reach. You are gone...Sold. Far from me. You belong to her, as you always have... As you always will.

I'm just crimson on porcelain skin.


End file.
